"So you said of her mother, Captain Whitmore, yet she lost her life by obstinately persisting in what she was pleased to callher duty."
"If the good ship sunk while endeavoring to save the drowning crew of another," said the poor Captain, wiping the dew from his spectacles, "she went down in a good cause, and a blessing has descended from above upon her child."
One day, when Anthony had been remonstrating with Juliet for incurring so much danger while visiting the poor during a period of epidemic sickness, she replied, with her usual frankness,
"This from you, Mr. Anthony, who have devoted yourself to be an instructor of the poor, a friend of the friendless, a minister of Christ!—how can I better employ my time than in striving to alleviate the sorrows that I cannot cure? To tell you the truth, I cannot yield more to pleasure without spoiling my heart. It is not that I am averse to innocent amusements, for no person enjoys them more. But were I constantly to gratify my own selfish inclinations, I should soon lose my peace of mind, that dew of the soul, which is so soon absorbed in the heated atmosphere of the world."
"If such devotion is what the worldly term enthusiasm, may its blessed inspiration ever continue to influence your actions!"
"Enthusiasm!" repeated the girl. "Oh that I could convey to you in words what I feel to be the true definition of that much abused term. Enthusiasm is the eternalstruggling of our immortal against our mortal nature, which expands the wings of the soul towards its native heaven. Enthusiasm! Can anything great or good be achieved without it? Can a man become a poet, painter, orator, patriot, warrior, or lover, without enthusiasm? Can he become a Christian without it? In man's struggles to obtain fame, enthusiasm is a virtue. In a holy cause it is termed madness. Oh, thou divine Author of the human soul, evermore grant me the inspiration of this immortal spirit!"
They were standing together in the balcony. The beams of the summer moon rested upon the upturned brow of the young enthusiast, and filled her eyes with a holy fire, and the words of love that had trembled upon Anthony's lips were dismissed from his thoughts as light and vain. She looked too pure to address to her, at such a moment, the wild outpourings of human passion.
Godfrey's flute sounded beneath the balcony. He played one of Juliet's favorite songs. She turned to her lover and said, with a lively air, "Is not the musician an enthusiast—is not the language in which he breathes his soul the poetry of sound?"
"Then what is love?" and Anthony tried to detain the small, white hand she had placed upon his arm.
"I dare not attempt to analyse it;" and Juliet blushed deeply as she spoke. "Beautiful when worshipped at a distance, it becomes too much the necessity of our nature when brought too near. Oh, if it would never bend its wings to earth, and ever speak in the language of music and poetry, this world would be too dark for so heavenly a visitant, and we should long for death to unclose the portals of the skies."
"Still, dearest Juliet, much quiet happiness may be realized on earth."
"But think of its duration—how short—what sorrows are crowded into the shortest life! To love, and to lose the beloved—how dreadful! My mother—my angel mother—at her death, my heart became a funeral urn, in which all sad and holy memories were enshrined. Oh, 'tis a fearful thing to love and lose! Better far to keep the heart fancy-free, than to find it the grave of hope."
"And will you never consent to love, Juliet?"
"Can you teach me how to resist its power?" said Juliet, with simplicity. "We love against our own will; we call reason to our aid, and reason laughs at us. We strive to forget; but memory, like hope, though it cheats us, will not in turn be cheated; one holds the keys of the future, the other unlocks the treasures of the past. When we cease to hope, memory may cease to recall what were once the offsprings of hope. Both accompany us through life, and will, I believe, survive the grave."
"And will you allow me, Juliet, to entertain the blessed hope—?"
At this moment the lovers were interrupted by the eternal old pest, as Godfrey very unceremoniously called Miss Dorothy.
"Really, Miss Whitmore, I wonder at your standing out here, in the damp night air, without your shawl and bonnet, and the dew falling so fast. I wish you would learn a little more prudence; it would save me a great deal of trouble."
"Alas," whispered Juliet, as Anthony led her back into the drawing-room, "how quickly the vulgarity of common-place banishes the beauty of the ideal!"
The intimacy of the two families now became a matter of daily occurrence. Captain Whitmore who had alwayscoveted a son of his own, was delighted with the society of the handsome intelligent young men. They were fine lads! very fine lads! He really did not know which to prefer. Juliet's choice would decide his, for the old man soon discovered that his daughter was the great attraction that drew the young men to the Lodge. Perhaps, had he been questioned closely on the subject, the old veteran would have acknowledged that he preferred Godfrey. He possessed more life and spirit than his quiet cousin; had more wit; was more lively and amusing. He loved hunting and fishing; played well at chess and draughts; and sang a good song. His face was always smiling and joyous; his brow never wore the cloud of care, the pensive earnest expression of refined thought which was so apparent in his cousin. Godfrey made the room glad with his gay hearty laugh. He was the life and soul of the convivial board, and prince of good fellows. A woman must be happy with such a handsome good-natured husband, and the Captain hoped that his dear Julee would be the wife of his favorite.
Hearts understood hearts better. Godfrey Hurdlestone was not the man who could make Juliet Whitmore happy. There existed no sympathy between them. The one was all soul, the other a mere animal in the fullest sense of the word; living but for animal enjoyment, and unable to comprehend the refined taste and exquisite sensibilities that belong to higher natures. Yet he loved music, had a fine ear and a fine voice, and exercised both with considerable skill. Here Juliet met him on equal terms; they played and sang together, and whilst so employed, and only drinking in sweet sounds, rendered doubly delicious when accompanied by harmonious words, Juliet forgot the something, she could not tell what, that made her feel such a deep aversion to the handsome musician.
"If my flute could but speak the language of my heart, how quickly, Miss Whitmore, would it breathe into your ear the tender tale which the musician wants courage to declare!"
"Ah," returned Juliet quickly, "such notes would only produce discord. Perfect harmony must exist before we can form a union of sweet sounds. Similarity of mind can alone produce reciprocity of affection. Godfrey Hurdlestone, there is no real sympathy between us—nature never formed us for each other."
"These are cruel words. I will not destroy hope by believing them true. We both love music passionately; here is at least one sympathy in common. To love you has become so essential to my happiness that I cannot think that you can be wholly insensible to my passion."
"You deceive yourself, Godfrey Hurdlestone. The moth is attracted to the candle, but the union produces misery and death to the unfortunate insect. Mere admiration is not love. The novelty wears off; the soul is sated with the idol it worshipped, and its former homage sinks into contempt. You seek the outward and palpable. I seek that which is unseen and true. But let us go to my father, he is fishing, and the evening is growing cold. If he stays out much longer in the damp meadow, he will be raving with the rheumatism."
"Your worthy father would not frown upon my suit."
"Perhaps not. But he would never urge me to encourage a suitor whom I could not love. I am very young, Mr. Godfrey, too young to enter into any serious engagements. I esteem you and your cousin, but if you persist in talking to me in this strain, it will destroy our friendship. If youreally feel any regard for me, never wound my feelings by speaking to me on this subject again."
As Juliet ran forward to meet her father, she felt like a bird escaped out of the snare of the fowler, while Godfrey, humbled and mortified, muttered to himself, "The deuce take these very clever girls; they lecture us like parsons, and talk like books."
"Why, Julee, love, how you have painted your cheeks," cried the delighted old man, catching her in his arms, and imprinting a very audible kiss upon her white forehead. "What has Mr. Godfrey been saying to you?"
"Miss Juliet will not listen to anything that I can say to her," said Godfrey gloomily.
"Pshaw!" returned the old man. "A lover must look out for squalls; his bark is seldom destined to sail upon a smooth sea. If she will not go ahead against wind and tide, you must try her upon another tack."
He turned to Juliet, and found her in tears.
Would that the dewy turf were spreadO'er this frail form and aching head;That this torn heart and tortured brainWould never wake to grief again.—S.M.
Would that the dewy turf were spreadO'er this frail form and aching head;That this torn heart and tortured brainWould never wake to grief again.—S.M.
When Anthony entered the study next morning, he found his cousin traversing the floor in great agitation.
"Anthony, you are just the person I wanted to see. My father is, I fear, a ruined man."
Anthony recoiled some steps.
"It is but too true. I have been talking to Johnstone, the steward. The account that he gives of our affairs is most discouraging. My father, it seems, has been living beyond his income for some years. The estates have all been heavily mortgaged to supply the wants of the passing hour, while no provision has been made for the future by their improvident possessor. Creditors are clamorous for their money, and there is no money to answer their demands. Mr. Haydin, the principal mortgagee, threatens to foreclose with my father, if the interest, which has been due upon the mortgage for some years, is not instantly forthcoming. In this desperate exigency I can only think of two expedients, both of which depend entirely upon you."
Anthony had never questioned the state of his uncle's affairs. He had deemed him rich, and this distressing intelligence fell upon him with stunning violence. He begged Godfrey to explain in what manner he could render his uncle the least assistance.
"It is not merely of my father I speak; the service is to us both, but it needs some prefacing."
Then stepping up to the astonished Anthony, he said in a quick abrupt manner—
"Do you love Miss Whitmore?"
"You have taken me by surprise, Godfrey. It is a question which, at this moment, I can scarcely answer."
"If your feelings towards her are of such an indefinite character, it will require no great mental effort to resign her. To me she is an object of passionate regard. A marriage with Miss Whitmore would render me the happiest of men, and retrieve the fallen fortunes of my house. Nor do I think, if you were absent, that she would long remain indifferent to my suit. But if you continue to persevere in trying to win her affections you will drive me mad."
Godfrey spoke with vehemence. Anthony remained silent, lost in profound thought. Godfrey went up to him and grasped him firmly by the hand. "Prove your love and gratitude to my father, Anthony, by an act of friendship to his son."
"God knows that I am painfully alive to the many obligations I owe to him, Godfrey; but you require of me a sacrifice I am unable to grant."
"Have you made an offer to Miss Whitmore? and has she accepted you?"
"Neither the one nor the other. Have you?"
"I spoke to her on the subject yesterday."
"Well," said Anthony, turning very pale. "Did she reject your suit?"
"She did not. She talked of her youth, and made some excuse to go to her father. But she showed no indications of displeasure. From her manner, I had all to hope, and little to fear. Few women, especially a young girl ofseventeen, can be won without a little wooing. I have no doubt of ultimately winning her regard."
"Can you really be in earnest?"
"Do you doubt my word? Do you think themiser's heirmore likely to win the affections of the romantic child of genius than the last scion of a ruined man?"
"How have I suffered myself to be cheated and betrayed by my own vanity!" said Anthony, thoughtfully. "Alas, for poor human nature, if this statement be true!"
"You still question my words, Anthony! Upon my honor, what I have said is strictly true; nor would it be honorable in you, after what I have advanced, to press your suit upon the lady."
"If you asked me to resign the wealth you prize so highly, Godfrey, I could do it. Nay, even my life itself would be a far less sacrifice than the idea of giving up the only woman I ever loved. Ask anything of me but that, for I cannot do it!"
"Then you will compel me to do this," said Godfrey, taking from his breast a loaded pistol, and aiming it at his own head.
"Madman!" cried Anthony, striking the weapon from his hand; "what would you do?"
"Prove your gratitude to me and mine," said Godfrey with a bitter laugh. "Your father is rich, mine is poor, and has been made so by his generosity to others!"
That horrid taunt! ah, how it stung his proud sensitive cousin to the heart! Startled and alarmed at Godfrey's demeanor, he was yet very doubtful of the truth of his statements, feared that he was but acting a part, until he saw the bright cheek of his companion turn pale, and the tears tremble in his eyes. Then, all the kindness he had received from his uncle, all the love he had cherished forhim from his earliest years, all the affection which he had lavished upon his hot-headed cousin, united to subdue the flame of passion which for a few moments had burnt so fiercely in his breast. He recalled the solemn promise he had made to Algernon never to forsake his son, and, dreadful as the sacrifice was, which Godfrey now called upon him to make, the struggle was over, the victory over self already won.
"You shall never say, cousin Godfrey, that Anthony Hurdlestone knowingly destroyed your peace. I love Juliet Whitmore. I believe that she loves me. But, for my uncle's sake, I renounce my claim."
Joy brightened up the handsome face of Godfrey. He was not wholly insensible to his cousin's generous self-denial. He embraced him with warmth, and the idea that he had rendered Godfrey happy partly reconciled the martyr of gratitude to the sacrifice he had made.
"You spoke of two expedients which might avert the ruin which threatened my uncle. Your marriage with Juliet Whitmore rests upon no broader basis than a mere possibility. Name the second."
"In case of the worst, to apply to your father for the loan of two thousand pounds."
Anthony shook his head, and, without thinking a reply to such a wild proposition necessary, took up his hat, and tried to still the agitation of his mind by a stroll in the park.
Anthony tried to reason himself into the belief that, in giving up the object of his affections, he had achieved a very great and good action; but there was a painful void in his heart, which all his boasted philosophy failed to fill.
Unconsciously he took the path that led to the humble dwelling of Mary Mathews. As he drew near the hawthorn hedge that separated the little garden from the road, his attention was arrested by some one weeping passionately behind its almost impervious screen. He instantly recognised Mary in the mourner; and from a conversation that followed, he found that she was not alone.
"I could bear your reproaches," she said to her companion, "if he loved me—but he has ceased to think of me—to care for me—I never loved but him—I gave him all that I had in my power to bestow—and he has left me thus."
"Did he ever promise you marriage?" asked the deep voice of William Mathews.
"Oh yes! a thousand and a thousand times."
"Then," and he uttered a dreadful oath, "he shall keep his word, or my name is not William Mathews."
"Ah! if he did but love me as he once loved me, I would not care. The shame would be joy, the disgrace happiness. The world is nothing to me—it may say what it likes—I would rather be his mistress than another man's wife. But to be forsaken and trampled upon; to know that another with half my beauty, and with none of my love, is preferred before me; is more than my heart can bear."
"Does my father know your situation?"
"No, no, I would not have him know it for worlds. I dare not tell him; and you have promised me, William, not to reveal my secret. Though father constantly transgresses himself, men are so unjust about women that he would never forgive me. I would rather fling myself into that pond," and she laughed hysterically, "than that he should know anything about it. Sometimes I think, brother, that it would be the best place for me to hide my shame."
"Live, girl—live for revenge. Leave your gay paramour to me. I have been the ruin of many a better man."
"I would rather die," returned the girl, "than suffer any injury to befall him. He is my husband in the sight of Heaven, and I will cling to him to the last!"
"You are a fool, Mary! Till this moment I always thought you a clever girl, above such paltry weakness. When your name is coupled with infamy, and you find yourself an object of contempt to the villain who has betrayed you, I tell you that you will alter your opinion."
"Alas! he despises me already," sighed the unhappy girl, "and it is that which makes me feel so bad. When I think of it there comes over me just such a scorching heat as used to sear up my brain in the bad fever. The people said I was crazed, but I was not half so mad then as I am now."
"Keep up your spirits, girl! I will compel him to make you his wife."
"What good would that do? You could not make him love me. We should only be more miserable than we are at present. I wish—oh! how I wish I were dead!"
Here the conversation between the brother and sister was abruptly terminated by Godfrey's spaniel, which had followed Anthony through the park, springing over the stile into the garden, and leaping into Mary's lap. The poor girl was sitting on the bank beneath the shade of a large elm tree. She bent her head down, and returned with interest the affectionate caresses of the dog.
"It is Mr. Hurdlestone's dog, William. Poor Fido, you love me still."
"His master cannot be far off," growled Mathews, jumping over the stile, and confronting Anthony.
The cousins were only partially known to him, and theirgreat personal likeness made him mistake the one for the other.
A little ashamed of being caught in the act of listening to a conversation never meant for his ear, Anthony would have left the spot; but the menacing audacious air of the smuggler aroused his pride, and he turned upon him with a haughty and enquiring glance.
"I would speak a few words with you, mister!"
"As many as you please. But let me first inform you that I am not the person whom you seek."
"Humph!" said the ruffian, with a sarcastic sneer, "that dodge won't do. You might as well attempt to cheat the devil as deceive Bill Mathews. I know you too well. You and I have a heavy account to settle, and you shall know me better before we part. Take that—and that—and that—as an earnest of our further acquaintance."
And he struck Anthony several heavy blows with an oak cudgel he held in his hand.
Forced to retaliate in self-defence, Anthony closed with his gigantic opponent, and several blows had been given and received on either side, when the combatants were separated by a third person—this was no other than Captain Whitmore who, with his daughter, accidentally rode up to the spot.
"Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone engaged in such a disgraceful fray! Can I believe the evidence of my senses?"
"Not if you would judge truly, Captain Whitmore," said Anthony, striving to keep a calm exterior, but still trembling with passion, while the most bitter and humiliating feelings agitated his breast.
"I was striving to revenge the wrongs done to an injured sister by a villain!" cried the enraged Mathews. "I appeal to you sir, as a man, a father, a brave British officer, if youwould suffer a sister or a daughter to be trampled upon and betrayed without resenting the injury?"
"I am incapable of the crime laid to my charge by this man," said Anthony, indignantly, when he saw the father and daughter exchange glances of astonishment and contempt. "Miss Whitmore, I entreat you not to give the least credit to this ruffian's accusation. He has uttered a base falsehood!"
The only answer the tortured lover received was an indignant flash from the hitherto dove-like eyes of Juliet Whitmore. She reined back her horse, and turned her face proudly away from the imploring gaze of the distracted Anthony.
"I must—I will be heard!" he cried, seizing the reins of her horse, and forcibly detaining her. "I see, Miss Whitmore, that this foul calumny is believed by you and your father. I demand an explanation before you leave this spot. William Mathews has accused me of being a villain—the seducer of his sister: and I here tell him to his face that his accusation is a hideous slander! Call hither your sister, Mr. Mathews—let her determine the question: she knows that I am innocent. I shrink not from the most rigid investigation of my conduct."
"Do as he bids you, Mr. Mathews," said the Captain. "Call here your sister. I consider myself bound in justice to listen to Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone's proposal."
Juliet's eyes involuntarily turned towards the garden gate; but her pale cheek flushed to crimson as it unclosed, and the unfortunate umpire, half led, half dragged forward by her brother, presented herself before them. Even Anthony's presence of mind well nigh forsook him, as, with a start, he recognised his cousin's unfortunate victim.
A few weeks had wrought a fearful change in the blooming and healthful appearance of the poor girl. She looked like a young sapling tree, on whose verdant head had fallen an incurable blight; an utter disregard of the opinions of others, or what the world would say of her, was manifested in her squalid appearance and total neglect of personal neatness. The pride of the girl's heart had vanished with her self-respect, and she stood before the strange group with a bold front and unbending brow; yet her eye wandered vacantly from face to face, as if perfectly unconscious of the real meaning of the scene.
Anthony had appealed to Mary to vindicate his character from the foul aspersion cast upon him; but when she came he was so shocked by her appearance that he was unable to speak to her.
"Mary," said her brother peremptorily, "is not this man your lover?"
Mary gazed upon Anthony sullenly, but returned no answer.
"Speak, Mary," said Anthony, addressing her with a degree of compassionate tenderness. "Did you ever receive wrong or injury from me? Did I ever address you as a lover, betray, or leave you to shame? Your brother has accused me of all these crimes. Speak out, and tell the truth."
Instead of answering his question in direct terms, the girl, who for the first time comprehended the degrading situation in which she was placed, and subdued by the kindness of Anthony's look and manner, sprang towards him, and, following the reckless disposition which had led to her ruin, seized his hand and pressing it to her lips, exclaimed,
"Oh, Mr. Hurdlestone! This from you?"
"It is enough," said Juliet, who had witnessed this extraordinary scene with an intensity of interest too great to be described; and, turning the head of her horse homewards, she rode off at full speed, murmuring through her fast-flowing tears, "What need have I of further evidence? Yes, he is guilty."
"She is gone!" exclaimed Anthony, in an agony of despair. "She is gone, and believes me to be a villain!"
Whilst he stood rooted to the spot, Mathew approached, and whispered in his ear, "Your mean subterfuge has not saved you. We shall meet again."
"I care not how soon," returned Anthony, fiercely; "but why," continued he, in a softer voice, "should I be angry with you? Man, you have mistaken your quarry—a matter of little moment to you, but a matter of life and death to me."
"Death and hell!" exclaimed the ruffian, who at last began to suspect his error. "If you are not Godfrey Hurdlestone, you must be his ghost!"
"I am his cousin; I never wronged either you or yours; but you have done me an injury which you can never repair."
"Well, hang me if that is not a good joke!" cried the smuggler, bursting into a coarse laugh, which quickened the steps of his retreating foe. "The devil had some mischief in store when he made those chaps so much alike. I would not wish my own brother to resemble me so closely as all that, lest mayhap he should murder or steal, and the halter should fall on my neck instead of his."
Oh, human hearts are strangely cast,Time softens grief and pain;Like reeds that shiver in the blast,They bend to rise again.—S.M.
Oh, human hearts are strangely cast,Time softens grief and pain;Like reeds that shiver in the blast,They bend to rise again.—S.M.
"Come, Miss Whitmore, you must rouse yourself from this unwomanly grief. It is quite improper for a young lady of your rank and fortune to be shedding tears for the immoral conduct of a worthless young profligate."
"Peace, Dorothy; don't scold the poor child. You see her heart is nearly broken. It will do her good to cry. Come, my own darling, come to your old father's arms, and never mind what your aunt says to you."
"Really, Captain Whitmore, if you mean to encourage your daughter's disrespectful conduct to me, the sooner we part the better."
"Dolly, Dolly, have you no feeling for the poor child? Do hold that cruel tongue of yours. It never sounded so harsh and disagreeable to me before. Look up, my Julee, and kiss your old father."
And Juliet made an effort to raise her head from her father's bosom, and look in his face. The big tears weighed down her eyelids, and she sank back upon his shoulder, faintly murmuring, "And I thought him so good."
"Yes," said Miss Dorothy, whose temper was not at all softened by her brother's reproof; "you never would believe me. You would follow your own headstrong fancy; and now you see the result of your folly. I often wonderedto see you reading and flirting with that silent, down looking young man, while his frank, good-natured cousin was treated with contempt. I hope you will trust to my judgment another time."
"Aunt, spare me these reproaches. If I have acted imprudently I am severely punished."
"I am sure the poor child was not worse deceived than I have been," said the Captain; "but the lad's to be pitied; he comes of a bad breed. But rouse up, my Julee—show yourself a girl of spirit. Go to your own room; a little sleep will do you a world of good. To-morrow you will forget it all."
"That poor girl!" said Juliet, and a shudder ran through her frame. "How can I forget her? Her pale face—her sunken eyes—her look of unutterable woe. Oh, she haunts me continually; and I—I—may have been the cause of all this misery. My head aches sadly. I will go to bed. I long to be alone."
She embraced her father, and bade him good night, and curtseying to aunt Dorothy, for her heart was too sore to speak to her, she sought the silence and solitude of her own chamber.
Oh, what luxury it was to be alone—to know that no prying eyes looked upon her grief; no harsh voice, with unfeeling common-place, tore open the deep wounds of her aching heart, and made them bleed afresh!
"Oh, that I could think him innocent!" she said. "Yet I cannot wholly consider him guilty. He looked—oh, how sad and touching was that look! It spoke of sorrow, but it revealed no trait of remorse; but then, would Mary, by her strange conduct, have condemned a man whom she knew to be innocent? Alas! it must be so, and 'tis a crime to love him."
She sank upon her knees, and buried her face in the coverlid of the bed, but no prayer rose to her lips—an utter prostration of soul was there, but the shrine of her God was dark and voiceless; the waves of human passion had flowed over it, and marred the purity of the accustomed offering. Hour after hour still found her on her knees, yet she could not form a single petition to the Divine Father. As Southey has beautifully expressed the same feelings in the finest of all his poems:
"An agony of tears was all her soul could offer."
"An agony of tears was all her soul could offer."
Midnight came; the moon had climbed high in the heavens. The family had retired for the night, and deep silence reigned through the house, when Juliet rose from her knees, and approaching the open casement, looked long and sadly into the serene, tranquil depths of the cloudless night.
Who ever gazed upon the face of the divine mother in vain? The spirit of peace brooded over the slumbering world—that holy calm which no passion of man can disturb—which falls with the same profound stillness round the turmoil of the battle-field, and the bed of death—which enfolds in its silent embrace the eternity of the past—the wide ocean of the present. How many streaming eyes had been raised to that cloudless moon!—how many hands had been lifted up in heart-felt prayer to those solemn star-gemmed heavens! What tales of bitter grief had been poured out to the majesty of night! The eyes were quenched in the darkness of the grave; the hands were dust; and the impassioned hearts that once breathed those plaintive notes of woe, where, oh where were they? The spirit that listened to the sorrows of their day had no revelation to make of their fate!
"And I, what am I, that I should repine and murmur against the decrees of Providence?" sighed Juliet. "The sorrows that I now endure have been felt by thousands who now feel no more. God, give me patience under every trial. In humble faith teach me resignation to Thy divine will."
With a sorrowful tranquillity of mind she turned from the window, struck a light, and prepared to undress, when her attention was arrested by a letter lying upon her dressing table. She instantly recognised the hand, and hastily breaking the seal, read with no small emotion the following lines
Say, dost thou think that I could beFalse to myself and false to thee?This broken heart and fever'd brainMay never wake to joy again.Yet conscious innocence has givenA hope that triumphs o'er despair;I trust my righteous cause to heaven,And brace my tortured soul to bearThe worst that can on earth befall,In losing thee—my life, my all!The dove of promise to my ark,The pole-star to my wandering bark,The beautiful by love enshrined,And worshipp'd with such fond excess;Whose being with my being twinedIn one bright dream of happiness,Not death itself can rend apartThe link that binds thee to my heart.Spurn not the crush'd and wither'd flower;There yet shall dawn a brighter hour,When ev'ry tear you shed o'er thisShall be repaid with tenfold bliss;And hope's bright arch shall span the cloudThat wraps us in its envious shroud.Then banish from thy breast for everThe cold, ungenerous thought of ill,Falsehood awhile our hearts may sever,But injured worth must triumph still.
Say, dost thou think that I could beFalse to myself and false to thee?This broken heart and fever'd brainMay never wake to joy again.Yet conscious innocence has givenA hope that triumphs o'er despair;I trust my righteous cause to heaven,And brace my tortured soul to bearThe worst that can on earth befall,In losing thee—my life, my all!
The dove of promise to my ark,The pole-star to my wandering bark,The beautiful by love enshrined,And worshipp'd with such fond excess;Whose being with my being twinedIn one bright dream of happiness,Not death itself can rend apartThe link that binds thee to my heart.
Spurn not the crush'd and wither'd flower;There yet shall dawn a brighter hour,When ev'ry tear you shed o'er thisShall be repaid with tenfold bliss;And hope's bright arch shall span the cloudThat wraps us in its envious shroud.Then banish from thy breast for everThe cold, ungenerous thought of ill,Falsehood awhile our hearts may sever,But injured worth must triumph still.
Juliet did not for a moment doubt that Anthony Hurdlestone was the author of these lines, and involuntarily she pressed the paper to her lips. Realities are stern things, but Juliet could not now believe him guilty: and with all the romance of her nature, she was willing to hope against hope; and she retired to bed, comforted for her past sufferings, and as much in love with Anthony as ever.
While Juliet enjoyed a profound and tranquil sleep, her unfortunate lover was a prey to the most agonising doubts and fears. "Surely, surely, she cannot think me guilty," thought the devoted Anthony, as he tossed from side to side upon his restless bed. "She is too generous to condemn me without further evidence. Yet, why do I cling to a forlorn hope? Stronger minds than hers would believe appearances which speak so loudly against me. But why should I bear this brand of infamy? I will go to her in the morning and expose the real criminal."
This idea, entertained for a moment, was quickly abandoned. What, if he did expose his cousin's guilt, might not Godfrey deny the facts, and Mary, in order to shield her unprincipled lover, bear him out in his denial; and then his ingratitude to the father would be more conspicuously displayed in thus denouncing his son. No: for Algernon's sake he would bear the deep wrong, and leave to Heaven the vindication of his honor. He had made an appeal to her feelings; and youth, ever sanguine, fondly hoped that it had not been made in vain.
Another plan suggested itself to his disturbed mind. He would inform Godfrey of the miserable situation inwhich he was placed, and trust to his generosity to exonerate him from the false charge, which Mary, in her waywardness or madness, had fixed upon him. Judging his cousin's mind by his own, he felt that he was secure—that, however painful to Godfrey's self-love, he would never suffer him to bear the reproach of a crime committed by himself.
Confident of success, he rose by the dawn of day, and sought his cousin's apartment. After rapping several times at the door, his summons was answered by Godfrey in a grumbling tone, between sleeping and waking.
"I must see you, Godfrey," cried Anthony, impatiently shaking the door. "My errand brooks no delay."
"What the deuce do you want at this early hour?" said Godfrey with a heavy yawn. "Now do be quiet, Tony, and give a man time to pull his eyes open."
Again the door was violently shaken. Godfrey had fallen back into a deep sleep, and Anthony, in his eagerness to gain an audience, made noise enough to have roused the Seven Sleepers from their memorable nap. With a desperate effort Godfrey at length sprang from his bed, and unlocked the door, but, as the morning was chilly, he as quickly retreated to his warm nest, and buried his head in the blankets.
"Godfrey, do rouse yourself, and attend to me; I have something of great consequence to communicate, the recital of which cannot fail to grieve you, if you retain the least affection for me."
"Could you not wait until after breakfast?" and Godfrey forced himself into a sitting posture. "I was out late last night, and drank too much wine. I feel confoundedly stupid, and the uproar that you have been making for the last hour at the door has given me an awful headache.But what is the matter with you, Tony? You look like a spectre. Are you ill? or have you, like me, been too long over your cups?"
"You know I never drink, Godfrey, nor have I any bodily ailment; but in truth my mind is ill at ease. I am sick at heart, and you, you, cousin, are the cause of my present sufferings."
"Ah! the old love story. You repent of giving up Juliet, and want me to release you from your promise. I am not such a romantic fool! I never give up an advantage once gained, and am as miserly of opportunities as your father is of his cash. But speak out Anthony," he continued, seeing his cousin turn pale, "I should like to hear what dreadful charge you have to bring against me."
"You shall hear, Godfrey, if I have strength and courage to tell you." Anthony sat down on an easy chair by the side of the bed, and after a long pause, in which he tried to compose his agitated feelings, he informed his cousin of the conversation that he had overheard between Mary and her brother, and what had subsequently happened. Godfrey listened with intense interest until he came to that part of the narrative where Mary, in her wandering mood, had confounded him with Anthony; and there, at the very circumstance which had occasioned his cousin such acute anguish, and when he expected from him the deepest sympathy, how were his feelings shocked as, throwing himself back upon his pillow, Godfrey burst into a loud fit of laughter, exclaiming in a jocular and triumphant tone, "By Jove, Anthony, but you are an unlucky dog!"
This was too much for the excited state of mind under which Anthony had been laboring for some hours, and with a stifled groan he fell across the bed in a fit. Godfrey alarmed in his turn, checked his indecent mirth, and dressing himself as quickly as he could, roused up his valet to run for the surgeon. The fresh air and the loss of a little blood soon restored the unfortunate young man to his senses and to a deep consciousness of his cousin's ungentlemanly and base conduct.
Instead of being sorry for this unfortunate mistake, Godfrey secretly congratulated himself upon his singular good fortune, and laughed at the strange accident that had miraculously transferred the shame of his own guilt to his cousin.
"This will destroy for ever what little influence he possessed with Juliet, and will close the Captain's doors against him. If I do not improve my present advantage, may I die a poor dependent upon the bounty of a Hurdlestone!"
Again he laughed, and strode onward to the Lodge, humming a gay tune, and talking and whistling alternately to his dog.
He found Miss Dorothy and her niece at work; the latter as pale as marble, the tears still lingering in the long dark lashes that veiled her sad and downcast eyes. The Captain was rocking to and fro in an easy chair, smoking his pipe and glancing first towards his daughter, and then at her starch prim-looking aunt, with no very complaisant expression.
"By Jove, Dorothy! if you continue to torment that poor child with your eternal sermons, you will compel me to send you from the house."
"A very fitting return for all my services," whimpered Miss Dorothy; "for all the love and care I have bestowed upon you and your ungrateful daughter! Sendmefrom the house—turnmeout of doors!Me, at my time of life;" using that for argument's sake which, if addressed to her by another, would have been refuted with indignation; "tosendmeforth into the world, homeless and friendless, to seek my living among strangers! Brother, brother, have you the heart to address this to me?"
"Well, perhaps I was wrong, Dolly," replied the kind-hearted sailor, repenting of his sudden burst of passion; "but you do so provoke me by your ill-humor, your eternal contradiction, and your old-maidish ways, that it is impossible for a man always to keep his temper. It's a hard thing for a fellow's wife to have the command of the ship, but it seems deucedly unnatural for him to be ruled by a sister."
"Is it not enough, brother, to make a virtuous woman angry, when she hears the girl, whose morals she has fostered with such care, defending a wicked profligate wretch like Anthony Hurdlestone?"
"Excuse me, aunt, I did not defend his conduct, supposing him guilty," said Juliet, with quiet dignity; "for if that be really the case such conduct is indefensible. I only hoped that we had been mistaken."
"Pshaw, girl! You are too credulous," said her father. "I have no doubt of his guilt. But here is Mr. Godfrey; we may learn the truth from him."
With an air of the deepest concern, Godfrey listened to the Captain's indignant recital of the scene he had witnessed in the park, and with his uncle Mark's duplicity (only Godfrey was a laughing villain, always the most dangerous sinner of the two) he affected to commiserate the folly and weakness of his cousin, in suffering himself to be entangled by an artful girl.
"He is a strange lad, a very strange lad, Captain Whitmore. I have known him from a child, but I don't know what to make of him. His father is a bad man, and itwould be strange if he did not inherit some of his propensities."
"Weaknesses of this nature were not among his father's faults," said the Captain. "I must confess that I liked the young man, and he had, I am told, a very amiable and beautiful mother."
"I have heard my father say so—but she was his first love, and love is always blind. I should think very little of the moral worth of a woman who would jilt such a man as my father, to marry a selfish miserly wretch like Mark Hurdlestone for his money."
"You are right, Mr. Hurdlestone," said Juliet. "Such a woman was unworthy of your father. Poor Anthony, he has been very unfortunate in his parents; yet I hoped of him better things."
"You think, Mr. Godfrey, that there is no doubt of his guilt?" asked Miss Dorothy.
"The girl must know best," returned Godfrey, evading, whilst at the same moment he confirmed the question. "He always admired her from a boy. We have had many disputes, nay downright quarrels, about her beauty. She was never a great favorite of mine. I admire gentle, not man-like women."
"He is a scoundrel!" cried the Captain, throwing down his pipe with a sound that made his daughter start. "He shall never darken my doors again, and so you may tell him, Mr. Godfrey, from me!"
"This is a severe sentence, but he deserves it!" said Godfrey. "I fear my father will one day repent that he ever fostered this viper in his bosom. Yet, strange to say, he always preferred him to me. Report says that there is a stronger tie between them, but this is a base slander upon the generous nature of my father. He loved Anthony'smother better than he did mine; and he loves her son better than he does me."
"Poor lad," said the Captain, warmly grasping his hand, "You have been unkindly treated among them; and you shall always find a friend and a father in me."
Godfrey was a little ashamed of his duplicity, and would gladly, if possible, have recalled that disgraceful scene; but having so far committed himself, he no longer regarded the consequences; but he determined to bear it out with the most hardened effrontery.
Whilst the victim of his diabolical art was writhing upon a sick bed under the most acute mental and bodily pain, the author of his suffering was enjoying the most flattering demonstrations of regard, which were lavishly bestowed upon him by the inhabitants of the Lodge. But the vengeance of Heaven never sleeps, and though the stratagems of wicked men may for a time prove successful, the end generally proves the truth of the apostle's awful denunciation: "The wages of sin is death."
Art thou a father? did the generous tideOf warm parental love e'er fill thy veins,And bid thee feel an interest in thy kind?Did the pulsation of that icy heartQuicken and vibrate to some gentle name,Breathed in secret at its sacred shrine?—S.M.
Art thou a father? did the generous tideOf warm parental love e'er fill thy veins,And bid thee feel an interest in thy kind?Did the pulsation of that icy heartQuicken and vibrate to some gentle name,Breathed in secret at its sacred shrine?—S.M.
Short was the time allowed to Anthony Hurdlestone to brood over his wrongs. His uncle's affairs had reached a crisis, and ruin stared him in the face. Algernon Hurdlestone had ever been the most imprudent of men; and under the fallacious hope of redeeming his fortune, he had, unknown to his son and nephew, during his frequent trips to London, irretrievably involved himself by gambling to a large extent. This false step completed what his reckless profusion had already begun. He found himself always on the losing side, but the indulgence of this fatal propensity had become a passion, the excitement necessary to his existence. The management of his estates had always been entrusted entirely to a steward, who, as his master's fortunes declined, was rapidly rising in wealth and consequence. Algernon never troubled himself to enquire into the real state of his finances, whilst Johnstone continued to furnish him with money to gratify all the whims and wants of the passing moment.
The embarrassed state of the property was unknown to his young relatives, who deemed his treasures, like thoseof the celebrated Abulcasem, inexhaustible. Godfrey, it is true, had latterly received some hints from Johnstone how matters stood, but his mind was so wholly occupied with his pursuit of Juliet Whitmore, and the unpleasant predicament in which he was placed by his unfortunate connexion with Mary Mathews, that he had banished the disagreeable subject from his thoughts.
The storm which had been long gathering at length burst. Algernon was arrested, his property seized by the sheriff, himself removed to the jail of the county town of ——. Thither Anthony followed him, anxious to alleviate by his presence the deep dejection into which his Uncle had fallen, and to offer that heartfelt sympathy so precious to the wounded pride of the sufferer.
The gay and joyous disposition of Algernon Hurdlestone yielded to the pressure of misfortune. His mind bowed to the heavy stroke, and he gave himself up to misery. His numerous creditors assailed him on all sides with their harassing importunities; and in his dire distress he applied to his rich brother, and, humbly for him, entreated a temporary loan of two thousand pounds until his affairs could be adjusted, and the property sold. This application, as might have been expected, was insultingly rejected on the part of the miser.
Rendered desperate by his situation, Algernon made a second attempt, and pleaded the expense he had been at in bringing up and educating his son, and demanded a moderate remuneration for the same. To this ill-judged application, Mark Hurdlestone returned for answer, "That he had not forced his son upon his protection; that Algernon had pleased himself in adopting the boy; that he had warned him of the consequences when he took that extraordinary step; and that he must now abide by the result;that he, Algernon, had wasted his substance, like the prodigal of old, in riotous living, but that he, Mark, knew better the value of money, and how to take care of it."
"Your father, Tony, is a mean pitiful scoundrel!" cried the heart-broken Algernon, crushing the unfeeling letter in his hand, and flinging it with violence from him. "But I deserved to be treated with contempt, when I could so far forget myself as to make an application to him! Thirty years ago, I should have deemed begging my bread from door to door an act of less degradation. But, Tony, time changes us all. Misfortune makes the proudest neck bow beneath the yoke. My spirit is subdued, Tony, my heart crushed, my pride gone. I am not what I was, my dear boy. It is too late to recall the past. But I can see too late the errors of my conduct. I have acted cruelly and selfishly to poor Godfrey, and squandered in folly the property his mother brought me, and which should have made him rich. And you, my dear Anthony, this blow will deprive you of a father, aye, and of one that loved you too. I would rather share a kennel with my dogs, than become an inmate of the home which now awaits you."
"Home!" sighed the youth. "The wide world is my home, the suffering children of humanity my lawful kinsmen."
Seeing his uncle's lip quiver, he took his hand and affectionately pressed it between his own, while the tears he could not repress fell freely from his eyes. "Father of my heart! would that in this hour of your adversity I could repay to you all your past kindness. But cheer up, something may yet be done. My legitimate father has never seen me as a man. I will go to him. I will plead with him on your behalf, until nature asserts her rights, and the streams of hidden affection, so long pent up in hisiron heart, overflow and burst asunder these bars of adamant. Uncle, I will go to him this very day, and may God grant me success!"
"It is in vain, Anthony. Avarice owns no heart, has no natural affections. You may go, but it is only to mortify your pride, agonize your feelings, and harden your kind nature against the whole world, without producing any ultimate benefit to me."
"It is a trial, uncle, but I will not spare myself. Duty demands the attempt, and successful or unsuccessful, it shall be made."
He strode towards the door. Algernon called him back. "Do not stay long, Tony. I feel ill and low spirited. Godfrey surely does not know that I am in this accursed place. Perhaps he is ashamed to visit me here. Poor lad, poor lad! I have ruined his prospects in life by my extravagance, but I never thought that it would come to this. If you see him on your way, Anthony, tell him (here his voice faltered), tell him, that his poor old father pines to see him, that his absence is worse than imprisonment—than death itself. I have many faults, but I love him only too well."
This was more than Anthony could bear, and he sprang out of the room.
With a heart overflowing with generous emotions, and deeply sympathising in his uncle's misfortunes, he mounted a horse which he had borrowed of a friend in the neighborhood, and took the road that led to his father's mansion; that father who had abandoned him, while yet a tender boy, to the care of another, and whom he had never met since the memorable hour in which they parted.
Oak Hall was situated about thirty miles from NorgoodPark, and it was near sunset when Anthony caught the first glimpse of the picturesque church of Ashton among the trees. With mingled feelings of pride, shame, and bitterness he rode past the venerable mansion of his ancestors, and alighted at the door of the sordid hovel that its miserable possessor had chosen for a home.
The cottage in many places had fallen into decay, and admitted through countless crevices the wind and rain. A broken chair, a three-legged stool, and the shattered remains of an oak table, deficient of one of its supporters, but propped up with bricks, comprised the whole furniture of the wretched apartment.
The door was a-jar that led into an interior room that served for a dormitory. Two old soiled mattresses, in which the straw had not been changed for years, thrown carelessly upon the floor, were the sole garniture of this execrable chamber. Anthony glanced around with feelings of an uncontrollable disgust, and all his boyish antipathy to the place returned. The lapse of nearly twenty years had not improved the aspect of his old prison-house, and he was now more capable of appreciating its revolting features. The harsh words, and still harsher blows and curses, which he had been wont to receive from the miser and his sordid associate, Grenard Pike, came up in his heart, and, in spite of his better nature, steeled that heart against his ungracious parent.
The entrance of Mark Hurdlestone, whose high stern features, once seen, could never be forgotten, roused Anthony from his train of gloomy recollections, and called back his thoughts to the unpleasant business that brought him there.
Mark did not at the first glance recognise his son in thetall elegantly-dressed young man before him; and he growled out, "Who are you, sir, and what do you want?"
"Mr. Hurdlestone," said Anthony respectfully, "I am your son."
The old man sat down in the chair. A dark cloud came over his brow, as if he already suspected the nature of his son's mission, and he knitted his straight bushy eyebrows so closely together that his small fiery dark eyes gleamed like sparks from beneath the gloomy shade.
"My son; yes, yes. I've heard say that 'tis a wise son that knows his own father. It must be a very wise father who could instinctively know his own son. Certainly, I should never have recognised mine in the gay magpie before me. But sit down, young sir, and tell me what brought you here. Money, I suppose; money, the everlasting want that the extravagant sons of pleasure strive to extort from the provident, who lay up during the harvest of life a provision for the winter of age. If such be your errand, young man, your time is wasted here. Anthony Hurdlestone, I have nothing to give."
"Not even affection it would appear, to an only son."
"I owe you none."
"In what manner have I forfeited my natural claim upon your heart?"
"By transferring the duty and affection which you owed to me to another. Go to him who has pampered your appetites, clothed you with soft raiment, and brought you up daintily to lead the idle life of a gentleman. I disown all relationship with a useless butterfly."
Anthony's cheek reddened with indignation. "It was not upon my own account I sought you, sir. From my infancy I have been a neglected and forsaken child, forwhom you never showed the least parental regard. Hard blows and harder words were the only marks of fatherly regard that Anthony Hurdlestone ever received at your hands. To hear you curse me, when, starving with cold and hunger, I have asked you for a morsel of bread—to hear you wish me dead, and to see you watch me with hungry eager eyes, as if in my wasted meagre countenance you wished to find a prophetic answer—were sights and sounds of every-day occurrence. Could such conduct as this beget love in your wretched child? Yet, God knows!" exclaimed the young man, clasping his hands forcibly together, while tears started to his eyes—"God knows how earnestly I have prayed to love you, to forget and forgive these unnatural injuries, which have cast the shadow of care over the bright morning of youth, and made the world and all that it contains a wilderness of woe to my blighted heart."
The old man regarded him with a sullen scowl; but whatever were his feelings (and that he did feel the whole truth of the young man's passionate appeal, the restless motion of his foot and hand sufficiently indicated) he returned no answer; and Anthony emboldened by despair, and finding a relief in giving utterance to the long pent-up feelings which for years had corroded his breast, continued,
"I rightly concluded that I should be considered by you, Mr. Hurdlestone, an unwelcome visitor. Hateful to the sight of the injurer is the person of the injured, and I stand before you a living reproach, an awful witness both here and hereafter at the throne of God of what you ought to have been, and what you have neglected to be—a father to your motherless child. But let that pass. I am in the hands of One who is the protector of the innocent, and inHis righteous hands I leave my cause. Your brother, sir, who has been a father to me, is in prison. His heart, sorely pressed by his painful situation, droops to the grave. I came to see if you, out of your abundance, are willing to save him, Father, let your old grudge be forgotten. Let the child of your poor lost Elinor be the means of reconciling you to each other. Cease to remember him as a rival: behold him only in the light of a brother—of that twin brother who shared your cradle—of a friend whom you have deeply injured—a generous fellow-creature fallen, whom you have the power to raise up and restore. Let not the kind protector of your son end his days in a jail, when a small sum, which never could be missed from your immense wealth, would enable him to end his days in peace."
"Asmallsum!" responded the miser, with a bitter laugh. "Let me hear whatyou, consider asmallsum. Your uncle has the impudence to demand of me the sum oftwo thousand pounds, which ishis ideaof asmall sum, which he considers atrifling remunerationfor bringing up and educating my son from the age of seven years to twenty. Anthony Hurdlestone, go back to your employer, and tell him that I never expended that sum in sixty years."
"You do not mean to dismiss me, sir, with this cruel and insulting message?"
"From me, young man, you will obtain no other."
"Is it possible that a creature, made in God's image, can possess such a hard heart? Alas! sir, I have considered your avarice in the light of a dire disease; as such I have pitied and excused it. The delusion is over. You are but too sane, and Ifeelashamed of my father!"
The old man started and clenched his fist, his teethgrated together, he glared upon his son with his fiery eyes, but remained obstinately silent.
Regardless of his anger, the young man continued—"It is a hard thing for a son to be compelled to plead with his father in a cause like this. Is there no world beyond the grave? Does no fear of the future compel you to act justly? or are your thoughts so wholly engrossed with the dust on which you have placed all your earthly affections, that you will not, for the love of God, bestow a small portion of that wealth which you want the heart to enjoy, to save a brother from destruction? Oh! listen to me, father—listen to me, that I may love and bless you." He flung himself passionately at the old man's feet. "Give now, that you may possess treasures hereafter, that you may meet a reconciled brother and wife in the realms of bliss!"
"Fool!" exclaimed the miser, spurning him from his feet. "In heaven they are neither married nor are given in marriage. Your mother and I will never meet, and God forbid we should!"
Anthony shuddered. He felt that such a meeting was impossible; and he started from the degrading posture he had assumed, and stood before the old man with a brow as stern and a glance as fierce as his own.
"And now, Anthony Hurdlestone, let me speak a few words to you, and mark them well. Is it for a boy like you to prescribe rules for his father's conduct? Away from my presence! I will not be insulted in my own house by a beardless boy, and assailed by such impertinent importunities. Reflect, young man, on your present undutiful conduct, and, if ever you provoke me by a repetition of it, I will strike your name out of my will, and leave my property to strangers more deserving of it. I hear that youhave been studying for the Church, under the idea that I will provide for you in that profession; I could do it. I would have done it, and made good a promise I once gave you to that effect. But this meeting has determined me to pursue another plan, and leave you to provide for yourself."
"You are welcome so to do, Mr. Hurdlestone," said Anthony, proudly; "the education which I have received at your brother's expense will place me above want. Farewell! and may God judge between us!"
With a heavy heart, Anthony returned to ——. He saw a crowd collected round the jail, and forcing his way to the entrance, was met by Godfrey; his face was deadly pale, and his lips quivered as he addressed his cousin.
"You are too late, Anthony—'tis all over. My poor father—."
He turned away, for his heart, at that time, was not wholly dead to the feelings common to our nature. He could not conclude the sentence. Anthony instantly comprehended his meaning, and rushed past him into the room which had been appropriated to his uncle's use.
And there, stretched upon that mean bed, never to rise up, or whistle to hawk or hound, lay the generous, reckless Algernon Hurdlestone. His face wore a placid smile; his grey hair hung in solemn masses round his open, candid brow; and he looked as if he had bidden the cares and sorrows of time a long good-night, and had fallen into a deep, tranquil sleep.
A tall man stood beside the bed, gazing sadly and earnestly upon the face of the deceased. Anthony did not heed him—the arrow was in his heart. The sight of his dead uncle—his best, his dearest, his only friend—had blinded him to all else upon earth. With a cry of deep and heart-uttered sorrow, he flung himself upon the breast of thedead, and wept with all the passionate, uncontrollable anguish which a final separation from the beloved wrings from a devoted woman's heart.
"Poor lad! how dearly he loved him!" remarked a voice near him, addressing the person who had occupied the room when Anthony first entered. It was Mr. Grant, the rector of the parish, who spoke.
"I hope this sudden bereavement will serve him as a warning to amend his own evil ways," returned his companion, who happened to be no other than Captain Whitmore, as he left the apartment.
The voice roused Anthony from his trance of grief, and stung by the unmerited reproach, which he felt was misplaced, even if deserved, in an hour like that, he raised his dark eyes, flashing through the tears that blinded them, to demand of the Captain an explanation. But the self-elected monitor was gone; and the unhappy youth again bowed his head, and wept upon the bosom of the dead.
"Anthony, be comforted," said the kind clergyman, taking his young friend's hand. "Your poor uncle has been taken in mercy from the evil to come. You know his frank, generous nature—you know his extravagant habits and self-indulgence. How could such a man struggle with the sorrows and cares of poverty, or encounter the cold glances of those whom he was wont to entertain? Think, think a moment, and restrain this passionate grief. Would it be wise, or kind, or Christian-like, to wish him back?"
Anthony remembered his interview with his father—the wreck of the last hope to which his uncle had clung; and he felt that Mr. Grant was right.
"All is for the best. My loss is his gain—but such a loss—such a dreadful loss!—I know not how to bear it with becoming fortitude!"
"I will not attempt to insult your grief by offering common-place condolence. These are but words, of course. Nature says, weep—weep freely, my dear young friend; but do not regret his departure."
"How did he die?—dear kind uncle! Was he at all prepared for such a sudden unexpected event?"
"The agitating occurrences of the last week had induced a tendency of blood to the head, which ended in apoplexy. From the moment of seizure he was insensible to all outward objects; he did not even recognise his son, in whose arms he breathed his last. Of his mental state, it is impossible for us to determine. He had faults, but they were more the result of unhappy circumstances than of any peculiar tendency to evil in his nature. He was kind, benevolent, and merciful: a good neighbor, and a warm and faithful friend. Let us hope that he has found forgiveness through the merits of his Redeemer, and is at rest."
Anthony kissed his uncle's cold cheek, and said, "God bless him!" with great fervor.
"And now, my young friend, tell me candidly, in what way you have offended Captain Whitmore—a man both wealthy and powerful, and who has proved himself such a disinterested friend to your uncle and cousin; and who might, if he pleased, be of infinite service, to you? Can you explain to me the meaning of his parting words?"
"Not here—not here," said Anthony, greatly agitated. "By the dead body of the father, how can a creature so long dependent upon his bounty denounce his only son? Captain Whitmore labors under a strong delusion—he has believed a lie; and poor and friendless as I am, I am too proud to convince him of his error."
"You are wrong, Anthony. No one should suffer anundeserved stigma to rest upon his character. But I will say no more upon a painful subject. What are you going to do with yourself? Where will you find a home to-night?"
"Here with the dead. Whilst he remains upon earth I have no other home. I know Mr. Winthrop the jailer—he is a kind benevolent man; he will not deny me an asylum for a few days."
"My house is close at hand; remain with me until the funeral is over."
"There will be no delay, I hope. They will not attempt to seize the body."
"Captain Whitmore has generously provided for that. He paid the creditor on whose suit your uncle was detained, this morning; but the Colonel was too ill to be moved."
"That was noble—generous. God bless him for that! And Godfrey—what is to become of him?"
"The Captain has insisted on his living at the Lodge until his affairs are settled. Your cousin bore the death of his father with uncommon fortitude. It must have been a terrible shock!"
"That is a sad misapplication of the word. A want of natural affection and sensibility, the world calls fortitude. Godfrey had too little respect for his father while living, to mourn very deeply for his death."
"Alas! my young friend; what he is, in a great measure, his father made him. I have known Godfrey from the petted selfish child to the self-willed, extravagant, dissipated young man; and though I augur very little good from what I do know of his character, much that is prominently evil might have been restrained by proper management, and the amiable qualities which now lie dormant beencherished and cultivated until they became virtues. The loss of fortune, if it leads him to apply the talents which he does possess to useful purposes, may, in the end, prove a great gain."
Anthony shook his head. "Godfrey will never work."
"Then, my dear sir, he must starve."
"He will do neither."
And the conversation between the friends terminated.